Learning How to Feel
by sunsetofdoom
Summary: The adventures of Spock and Jim's children. Drama, acting, breaking through shells. Life, love, and logic, through the eyes of the Graysons and Kirks. We are us. That's all. That's enough.
1. Chapter 1

1: Giddiness-Niko Grayson and George Kirk

I hurried up to the shuttle, really hoping I wasn't late. My tearful, heartfelt goodbyes (Ha, as if) with my parents had taken longer than expected, (Through no fault of my own, of course!), and now the departure time seemed to be getting dangerously close... _three-point-two-five-nine minutes until, to be exact._

I shook my head, trying to banish that last thought. I was boarding a shuttle full of artists and bohemians like myself; I definitely couldn't afford to lose my control over my traitorous part-Vulcan brain.

Snort. Funny. Trying to control the controller and doing my best to express every emotion _possible,_ through acting. The exact opposite of every other member of my family. How very ironic.

I still wish that I had someone with me. _Other_ than my alternate personality, I mean. But this is my best chance for a new beginning.

As I board, I look over the sea of heads, all chatting animatedly. Almost no empty spaces.

_Well, there goes my chance of a window seat._ Ah, sarcasm. What would I do without you? It's a great coping method. One that I learned from my godfather. The father of my best friend...

_No, no, wait, don't think about that don't think about that!_

_... Too late._

Memories of Jim, but especially of George and I, played themselves on the wallscreen I seem to have surreptitiously installed in the back of my cranium. Fishing. Firecrackers. Tackling each other. Me diving into the lake to keep George afloat until he could be pulled up, and Jim grabbing me by the back of the collar and hauling me into the boat after I had lost all my strength. Long nights in the tree house telling spooky stories and bad jokes. Our lame attempts at catching Ozzy the squinny. RENT. Hairspray. The Music Man. Show Choir. My first big fight with my father, and his with Jim, each occasion turning into a spontaneous multi-day sleepover in the tree house or the other's basement until things cooled off.

One crazy Halloween night, when we did alternately the coolest and dumbest thing ever- taking a penknife, cutting ourselves and holding hands until they stopped bleeding into each other.

_(When single frames from one magic night, forever flicker in close-up, on the 3-D Imax of my mind...)_

_Odd how the title of that song is "Halloween"..._

I fingered the tiny scar still left on my right palm. Maybe I could...

_Stop. He's gone. He left. No more._ As much as he annoys me, my Vulcan half's stoicism and logic is helpful occasionally. _Very_ occasionally.

Left with no other option, I heave an over-dramatic sigh and drag my sorry ass to the nearest open seat. At the back, between several semi-cute girls in mime-wear and a douche with spiked-back hair reading lines. Part of my mind noted that he mispronounced "metaphorically". You can guess which part that was. I let my gaze wander around the shuttle. Any other seats?

A buff guy with a rose tattoo, next to a curly-haired blonde kid looking mopey, next to a tall woman that looked like she could bend herself into miraculous shapes-and, from her expression, unbend to beat the crap out of somebody. Her bench mate, a sharp-eyed girl with a magenta mohawk, leaned around and tapped the blonde with a concerned expression. He looked up, and shook his head, smiling shyly. He rubbed the back of his neck.

Like George always did when he was talking to a cute girl...

Wait. That was _exactly_ what George looked like when he was embarrassed. As in, the kid did not have one feature dissimilar to my best friend.

For a few seconds, I stared. I finally let myself breathe in and out, shaky as it may have been. He hadn't left. He was _waiting_.

If only for a little while, I let myself stand and stare in wonder that he hadn't abandoned me. Then, I collected my fragile emotions, boxed them up, and did what I always do when I'm overwhelmed: create a big, dramatic, utterly fake and completely hilarious improv scene.

I stood up straight and put my hands on my hips, summoning my best Southern accent that Joanna had taught me to do on her last visit.

"Gregory Nigel Kirk, where in the Sam Hill you been? I been worryin' my sorry self sick over y'alls, and now I come on this place and you were comin' and y'all didn't even tell me? Why, I oughta whip your sorry hide for disruptin' mah roooouuuuu-tine!" I finished with a long, drawn-out note (perfectly on pitch, if I may add). The loud, out-of-place rant of an angry Southern wife drew stares and laughter from the rest of the passengers, but I didn't care. Besides, most of them were admiring. That's why I made the decision to go to an acting company- their over-the-top ways would make mine seem completely normal.

He did an abrupt double-take, an expression of absolute glee dancing over his features before he assumed his role in the scene. He knows how I cope with things, and he takes it in stride, playing along until neither of us can breathe with laughter.

"Well, honey-bunch, I just wanted to surprise ya! Ain't'cha surprised? I thought ya'd be happy to see me!" His hazel eyes glowed in giddiness.

"Surprised? Well, ya better bet your damn britches I'm surprised! I'm near surprised enough to beat the skin right offa y'all!"

"But sweetie..." He began, desparately fighting for breath. Then, deciding that it was too much effort to keep resisting, he busted up laughing.

Then he decided that it would be a _wonderful_ idea to get up and _hug_ me.

I believe his judgement may have been impaired by either lack of oxygen or jut plain not seeing me for three days.

It was definitely a good thing that we were both wearing long-sleeved shirts, ensuring no skin-to-skin contact.

With as turbulent as my own emotions were, I don't think I could've stayed calm with his pouring into me as well- because God only knows that his emotions are about as intense and easily transmitted as you can get without being pregnant. Thank the powers that be we weren't touching. I could not afford to lose it. Not when I was this close to proving myself.

As he pulled himself away, he smiled brightly. "Sorry about that. I really did want to tell you, but my dad and I had a fight, and so I just decided to stick around here until it was time to leave. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I was not scared!" I sighed, knowing it would do no good at all to protest the point. "And anyways, why do you continually hound me about trying to have a better relationship with my father, when yours and Jim's is so much worse?"

He laughed again, this time with a sheepish air. "Because I'm a giant hypocrite?"

"You got that right." I smacked him on the arm. " Oh, now look. Your seat's been taken."

One of the cute-ish mime girls had sneakily gotten up and taken George's place next to Buff Rose Tattoo Guy to flirt with him.

Leaving the only seats empty right next to each other. I think that may be the universe trying to apologize for the misunderstanding.

Of course, one of us would have to sit next to Douchebag Lines Reader, but I'm sure we could find some way to put a positive spin on that. Namely bothering him in any and all ways possible. Including flirting with him, bursting out into song, and the classic "I'm-not-touching-you" game.

_This is gonna be so great._

* * *

Turns out, Line-Learning Douche (Actual name D'jango) isn't that bad. I mean, sure, he uses enough hair gel to fill a goldfish bowl, nearly threw up on us when we launched, and is very obsessive about his "career", but all in all he's not really that annoying. As it ends up, he actually hacked the broadcast system in the transport ship that we were staying on to start playing "Our Time Has Come" when all us actors walked on-board. He got confined to his quarters, but it was so worth it just to feel that moment, right when it began. We all felt like big-time movie stars already, and we weren't even out of the docking area.

The smaller, commercial vessel, compared with the Enterprise, was a complete piece of shit.

But I liked it. We did have to share rooms, though. Like college dorms, but without the hangovers and awkward moments. Obviously enough, George and I shared. Not as bad as some occasions, trust me. One time, when it was twelve degrees out, we had to share a sleeping bag so we wouldn't get hypothermia. That sucked, let me tell you. Especially with my being of Vulcan heritage. It was a desert planet, so my body naturally desires warmer temperatures. But somehow, being freezing and spooning with George, was better than being inside in my bed, alone.

Not that I could, or would, ever be able to tell him or anyone else that. Too embarrassing.

I tried, though, to tell him, in any way I could. Especially in that cramped dorm room, on our way to some thespian-deprived planet far from our own.

"Hey, Smallville?" I asked, trying to keep my breathing under control. Faking, creating, and masking emotional scenes, I was an expert at. But throw in anyone that I really, truly care about, and it's a whole new ball game. I had hoped that his humerous childhood nickname would defuse my jitters. Wrong. Dead wrong. I can't even use my very underused Vulcan control and poise, because he would easily know something was wrong. Normally I only use that as a last resort, when I'm truly devastated.

"Sup, Niko?" God, he's smiling. Asshole.

"I just wanted you to know..." I couldn't keep myself from trailing off. No idea how to say this. Any of it.

"That you were lying when you said I didn't scare you? That you care about me? That I'm you very best friend and it would kill you to lose me? That you're terrified that anyone and everyone could leave you? That you miss your dad and the rest of your family, even if you don't always get along?"His smile, I see now, wasn't mocking at all. It was comforting, understanding, a little teasing, yes, but there was no malice in it. Never had been.

"Because I already know. And I feel the same way. I depend on you, Nik. And I want my dad to be proud of me, too. It's fine. It's _human_. And don't worry about not being able to say that. Because I'm not the type who needs to hear reassurances out loud every two seconds. The fact that you made the effort is imressive."

I could feel another smile on my face. Not my normal one. That one didn't have feeling behind it. I was incredibly happy to hear all those things out loud. Commander Logic and I may not neccesarily _like_ each other, but we do love each other. And now, just because my best friend said it, I knew. For sure. My father, the ever-stoic Spock, did love me. Because however oddly different we are, I'm his son. Same with my sister Kea, and my little brother Salek. I'm their brother, even if I'm crazy and have Middle Child Syndrome like nobody's business.

I'm just me. That's all. That's _enough_.

Then I stood up, facing him head-on. (Three inches shorter, but that doesn't matter. It _doesn't, _I swear!)

I place a teasing smile on my lips.

"Well, as long as we understand each other."

Slowly, slowly, our heads tilt towards each other...

Three millimeters away, George pulls back.

"Okay this is too weird."

And as I jumped in the air in celebration, there was only one emotion filling my entire body.

"Yes! I am the _King _of Gay Chicken!"

Giddiness.

* * *

**YAY! Haha. I think Niko's hilarious. Tell me if you don't. I'll revise it. Well, I will anyways, but reviews would be much appreciated. This is my first venture into the Star Trek fandom. Unfortunately. It's so awesome! **

**This is going to be a bunch of drabbles. With Kea Amanda Grayson-Uhura, Niko Grayson(seen here), Salek Grayson, George Kirk(again, seen here), and Cassidy Kirk. They're fun, but I have PnF stuff to finish up, so updates will be sporadic. As always.**

**Reviews? PRETTY PLEASE?**


	2. Chapter 2

Kea:

Kea's favourite color is, and always has been, red. It isn't the dark, sticky color of blood (Human blood, anyway), and it isn't light, girly pink.

No, it is a rich, dusty red-orange that she loves, the color of sand and sunsets and Vulcan, of the home she will never see and always miss with a tight, semi-controlled pain that can only be described by a broken heart. Her father says this is a genetic memory now, the tragedy part of all Vulcans, born and unborn, until the emotion has run its course.  
Red is also the color of anger. Not _her_ red, but a red nonetheless, and she is sometimes overwhelmed by just how much anger is engraved into the subconcious of her blood-race. Strangely, she can feel a similar anger radiating from the girl who stands next to her when their brothers goof off, and when she double-takes, startled at the odd sameness, her eyes catch hold of blue steel.

And now, blue has also begun to hold her interest; cool, icy gray-blue that can freeze, or burn, or bubble, or spark. Cassidy Kirk's eyes are this color, the young woman that simultanously cools and heats her, makes her want to run and jump and cry and laugh all at the same time. How one single color can do it all, she doesn't know, and doesn't want to.

Some things, as Doctor McCoy told her once, are better left unexplained.

Niko:

His choice of colors leans towards blues. Deep, flowing, liquid blues that make him want to dive in and hold his farmboy childhood until it's irretrievably gone. During the summer months, it's the murky lake water they swim in every day because no matter the weather it's always hot, the worn sign on the front of the candy store they walk to for sugar that their parents refuse them, and the ancient, wondrous changing from the bright, powdery blue of afternoon to the grand, cosmic blackness of space and stars. The fireworks he sets off from the backyard are always the blue ones- whether "Sparkling Turquoise" or "Royal Navy", they are his first pick, because to see the wet, free hues arching against the smooth black silk of Iowa nights maks him feel like dancing, shouting to the sky who he is and what he stands for.

Of course, the feeling only lasts until someone (read: his father, his godfather, or, ultimately, the police) comes after them all for minor possession of illegal explosives, which he will inevitably take the rap for so that George doesn't get in trouble, but the single second of joy is worth it. Just enough to tide him over for a year until their annual hitchhike to Missouri next June.

He wishes it could last forever. Of course, it can't, and it doesn't, but something tells him on Graduation Day that it isn't really an ending, more of a beginning.

And five years later, when he finds himself stationed with his best friend and the rest of the Galactic Cultural Exchange Program on an M-Class planet, and looks up to find the sky a sweet, intoxicating turquoise, he is elated to realize that he's finally found his place.

Selak:

The youngest Grayson has always held a certain fondness for dark yellow-gold. As logical as he has always been, yellow was his infancy and childhood wrapped up tight. When his mother had been pregnant, they hadn't had the time or equipment to find out the gender or DNA structure of the fetus, and by the time they had, they were used to the suspense. Yellow had been known through the ages as gender-neutral, therefore had been chosen for his room, blanket, toys, and so on. It also symbolized happiness and hope, which they needed after their first two tries for a third child had ended in miscarriage. He was their sworn "last try", their final leap off the edge that had paid off at last. He may have been the most stoic and Vulcan of his siblings, but with a youngest-child innocence and optimism that never really went away, no matter how much he meditated or pushed away a display of emotion.

He tried not to make the mistake that characterized his father for a long time- he would always remind himself that it was fine to feel emotion. What wasn't, was acting on them against his good sense and logic. To partake in an action persuaded only by emotion would be illogical and would likely do more harm than good. But emotion could factor into a decision, and he could stilll remain guided by intelligence. It was only a question on maintaining balance.

But even with his oh-so-Vulcan outlook, he still relished golds, yellows. They led him through his life, lending him support and comfort even as an adult.

_"Mr. Grayson, warp factor three, if you please."_

_"Warp factor three, Captain."_

Selak smiled softly, glancing at his dark yellow tunic.

Yep. Always there.

George:

George doesn't know why, but he likes green. He doesn't have a particular fondness for anything green, not especially (except fresh grass and corn shucks that he used to drop into his sister's hair). But he likes what it represents- life. He's never been good at anything in specific, with a decent grasp on almost any skill, but just enough to comprehend, not to specialize. He's brilliant, but undecided. In general, he's just good at living. The only strong, defining skill he has is loyalty, willingness to do anything for his friends or family.

Which is why, when Niko gets a spur-of-the-moment plan to join the Galactic Cultural Exchange Program and to hell with everything else, George Kirk decides that he will follow his best friend across the galaxy, simply to live at his side.

Cassie:

She has too many colors to name. She doesn't think in screenshots, or think one single part of something is pretty. She considers the entire picture, every bit of it. Sunsets, cornfields, ponds, bonfires, all in combinations. She loves how the blue and white of Earth's atmosphere and oceans contrast with its green-brown continents, playfully fighting for dominance. She's built for space, like her father, like her grandfather, so black draws her towards it with promises of endless possibilities. The stars, pinpoints of white light, are guidance, wisdom, that if she were to travel far enough, she may just be able to understand. Red, yellow, blue, green, all mean nothing without each other, as is the same in their families. On their own, nothing can be truly great.

* * *

**Alright, I told everyone the next one would be "Betrayal", but I lied. Still working on it. This piece hit me like a truck at about three in the morning a few weeks ago, and I'm genuinely proud of it. For once. Been slaving on it FOREVER. School sucks, I've been spending my lunch periods typing like a maniac on stories that likely won't even get posted. My semi-beta won't reply to my messages, and I can't find anyone IRL to edit them because I have trust issues and think that if anyone were to see the things I write and the characters I write about, it'll come back and bite me in the ass. I mean, I put my soul into this shit... And then post it on the internet. Wow, I'm oxymoronic. With emphasis on "moronic". But enough of my self-deprication.**

**Anyone who's reading this who reads any of my other stuff, I'm working on it. But I don't eat or sleep well these days, so my writing sucks and I have to keep re-editing it. WAWG is a reasonably odd case, because no matter how many positive reviews are pouring on me I still think it's a piece of shit and want to totally re-write it. From the beginning. And I just don't have the energy. I have a few EEnE oneshot/stories that I'm going strong on, and a Ghostbusters prompt oneshot that has stalled out almost completely for my brain to come up with new ways to torture my GB OCs. I love them, but I make them suicidal; is that saying something about myself that I really shouldn't let become public knowledge? Aw, fuck it. I've already got hundreds of teachers and therapists ragging on me, what's the worst they could do?**

**Please review? Pretty please? And tell me what I need to work on, whether you take that as an invitation for constructive criticism or a caps-lock RAEG about how I need to post more of (X). Because I mean both. Really. I do.**

**HUGS!**


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